The Falcon Cannot Hear
by Ariaeris
Summary: Placed on a pedestal constructed towards the heavens, Harry accepts his role and judges those whom have deified him. Life, Death, and an order from a God created out of false lies and broken hopes. Kingsley/Harry.
1. The Falcon

This work might look familiar to some of you; if so, you probably read this in my drabble series, "Harry's Chosen One". As such, you might be a little disappointed in this chapter; not much has changed, save for this intro and the ending notes.

Still, that is because this is merely the basis for the entire fic. This is the present; for the next few chapters I will show you how the world reached the point it is at now, and then I will add the conclusion. Only then will this story be finished.

Still, I have this chapter for you, my loyal and loving readers. As the quote, title, and chapter title probably reveal, I was inspired by the poem "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats, and though this story doesn't stay completely true to the poem, it is influenced by it a bit.

One last thing to note; this chapter, and the following two, are written utilizing the Stream of Consciousness. For those who have read "Harry's Chosen One," you should be intimately familiar with this technique. If you are not though, there is a detailed explanation of it in chapter thirty-five. For those who want an immediate definition though, then it is something basically written as if it was the way a person was thinking.

Got that? Good! Now...

Enjoy~

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_**The Falcon Cannot Hear**_

_Chapter 1: The Falcon_

_And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, _

_Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?_

_-William Butler Yeats_

* * *

He stood before life and death.

Harry's eyes slowly trailed over the frothing masses of people before him, dull green eyes pausing as he saw a shadow of a familiar face. It had been so long since he had seen those he had called his friends, those he had called his family, that it seemed as if they were almost a dream. He hesitated briefly as his eyes met Remus', who was standing proud and tall for the first time in his life beside the Weasleys, who seemed equally as happy. Remus had been through so much, seen so much…Harry hardened his heart. No doubts, no fears, no regrets; the first rules he had learned on the battlefield.

War was his master and his slave, his obsession that drew him away from the world around him. So much had been sacrificed to reach this point, but what point had they reached from their sacrifices? Was it all worth it? Was it worth it to continue on?

Harry sat, back ramrod straight, as Kingsley spoke to the war-ravaged crowd, assuring them of a time full of peace that was no longer far off in the horizon, but here before them. Kingsley, who had placed his trust and his life and his heart in Harry's hands. Another moment of weakness. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

Peace had fallen upon the Wizarding World thanks in no small part due to his own efforts; this peace was therefore a creation of his own. Therefore, wasn't it right to take back what he had created, to end what he had brought into the world if he so wished?

He wondered if this is what God felt as he watched the ticking of seconds pass by, unbearably slow and yet reassuringly inexorable.

His hands were sweating. Nervousness? Where had his resolve gone?

Many had tried to teach him what the difference between light and dark, good and evil, was in this world. Just as many others had tried to teach him about the grey areas in life, where morals were shaded, and the time and the place and the event all affected what was 'good.'

Harry did not believe in morals.

One teacher though had pierced his willful ignorance over the workings of the world, and taught him truth. Power, power enough to change and alter and shape to your design.

Tommy-boy had been such an inspiration. Perhaps he would cite him as a role model some day, the cynic in his mind whispered.

So. Power. He_ had_ created. The peace around his was his masterpiece, but it was the pinnacle of amateurs. So much more could be done, could? So much more _was_ to be done. That was why he was here - to change and alter and shape…

God grant him strength. He was weak-hearted and he did not know if he could stand before his chosen fate. Chosen, by him, for the first time.

Kingsley was calling him up to the podium, to stand before the masses and preach the good news. Kingsley, brave and loyal and lion-hearted and as blinded as all the rest (though with better vision still - behind a blindfold though, vision meant nothing), had the thoughts that crossed my mind ever crossed yours?, the child whispered, locked away in the depths of his mind.

His wand was in his hand, the Elder Wand, and a growing sense of dread crossed the eyes of those who knew what he held. An anticipatory breath was drawn, and all watched as their Creator and their Destroyer judged them and decided their fates.

He stood before them, life and death.

* * *

So, how was it? As you can see, this is a partial stream of consciousness fic, much like the Voldemort/Harry drabble in "Harry's Chosen One," which explains why Harry's thoughts are so fragmented.

Do you think Harry went with his plan (and who thinks they know what the plan is?) or do you think Harry chickened out? What do you think Harry wants from the world, and why would go to lengths such as these to gets what he wants? How do you think the people close to him will react to whatever his actions might be? Who just wants me to stop talking?

Review, and tell me! I can not improve without your feedback, and as many of you know by now, I am ready, willing, and able to give out gift fics in order to win your love! So, for all you know, the two minutes it takes you to write a review might end with you getting a fic of your choosing (pairing, plot, et cetera) written in your name!

Until the next chapter (which will probably be posted tomorrow in fact!),

Ariaeris~


	2. The Falconer

Hey everyone!

So, honestly, who is surprised that I kept my promise? I know that I am not the best when it comes to keeping up review schedules, but I said I would most likely post this today, and lookie there: I did!

In any case, the angst-fest is only continuing this chapter, and this time through the eyes of Kingsley Shaklebolt. Now, does anyone out there know how to corrupt the newest Minister of Magic in the Harry Potter universe, head Auror for who knows how long, member of the Order of the Phoenix, and all around badass?

Answer: Surprisingly easy.

So take a look into the slowly caving consciousness that is Kingsley Shaklebolt, and as always,

Enjoy~

* * *

**_The Falcon Cannot Hear_**

_Chapter 2: The Falconer_

_I respect faith, but doubt is what gets you an education._

_- Wilson Mizner_

* * *

The fire cast odd shadows on his mahogany desk, and Kingsley could almost imagine there were little demons dancing in the leaping embers.

Tomorrow, everything was going to change.

Harry, his beloved Harry with his far-too-old eyes, had defeated Voldemort for the final time. He felt a surge of pride; there was no need to fear that creature's name any longer (self-pride) and Harry had won his (their) happiness.

The public needed to hear reassuring words - so long in fear, their peace ripped away from them three (was it really only that long?) years ago and revealing old horrors had left them frightened of the future.

They shouldn't be - fearful, that is; _Harry_ had won the future for them. There was no need for fear, not with Harry leading the way, indefatigable savior that he was.

He was sleeping, looking tense-less for once. It was an infatuating sight; his tired green eyes hidden behind pale lids. The leather couch must have been cool underneath his cheek and Kingsley was tempted to see if Harry's hair was as soft as it looked, fanned out as it was over the cushions.

It wasn't. It was softer.

Kingsley returned to his desk, resting his elbows on it and his head in his hands. It was just past midnight, but it almost seemed as if the sun was about to peak over the horizon.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, the mantra went.

He would give his speech (which he still had to finish, the damnable thing), Harry would smile and give a short address (he couldn't shake the feeling that he was exploiting him, which was most definitely _not_ true), and then it would all be over.

He wondered if it would be wise to kiss Harry in public afterwards.

Probably not.

He would still do so, anyway. Screw any dissenters - he wanted the world to know of what he (they) had.

Thank God for Auror-trained arms, the thought flittered through his mind, as he cradled his lover. Though Harry was not as large as him, he was still a good five-ten or so.

Harry shifted, his head resting on his chest, and Kingsley smiled.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Two minutes to leave the Ministry, ten minutes to get home.

Tomorrow.

Fifteen minutes he allowed to watch Harry sleeping, a soft smile on his face.

Tomorrow.

Two hours to finish his speech, review it, and declare it good.

Tomorrow.

Four minutes later and he was in bed, Harry in his arms, and his tired mind conjuring dreams of grandeur and happiness racing through his head.

Everything was going to change.

Tomorrow.

* * *

It might be shorter than the last chapter, but I think I said everything I wanted to in this chapter.

Anyone have torn feelings about Kingsley yet? So obviously in love and, as I stated last chapter, so very, very blind. Well, he will reap the consequences of his actions later - the tomorrow that lingers on his horizon is when everything will come to a head.

For now though, we will skip back one more day. One more moment is all that is needed to set up the stage upon which Harry will speak, the pulpit from which he will judge. Only one more question needs to be answered:

Just how does Harry have the Elder Wand?

Ariaeris~


	3. The Flight

Last chapter we had Kingsley offsetting our perceptions of him; this time, it is Harry that is unveiled.

We had a single question last chapter: how did Harry obtain the Elder Wand?

Read on, and we will have our final answer to our not-last question.

And, of course,

Enjoy~

And try not to be squicked at the potential Albus/Harry one-sided love you might interpret here. Reading over this chapter once more, I realized that Albus sounded more love-lost than forlorn here, and that was a definite 'didn't mean to do _that_' moment. Sorry Sparkles, no Allie was meant to be written here.

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The Falcon Cannot Hear

_Chapter 3: The Flight_

_There is no benefit in the gifts of a bad man._

_- Euripides_

* * *

Harry had a wicked beauty about him, something that crept underneath your skin and sent cold shivers down your spine. Dark hair, dark eyes, darkening soul; he looked so much like the Tom that had demanded a job from him that Albus had almost cried, despite seeing the similarities so many years ago between the two.

Harry sat, much like Tom had, across the room from him, his undrunk tea in one hand. Watching him; cold green eyes traced his every movement, and Albus knew that his role in the world had finally come to its conclusion.

"How are you, my boy?" Genial, polite, misleading. Harry missed none of it; those same eyes (Albus almost cried thinking that he would never be able to look at the beautiful Lily Potter without seeing her same, identically haunted, eyes) boring holes into him. They were better than legilimency; Albus could feel his soul, his every mistake, bare before those cold eyes.

"Tired, Albus," Harry replied, and the Headmaster was not surprised to hear his given name from that mouth. Harry had long since earned the right to use it. "So very tired."

"You will not get any rest on the path that you are on," Albus warned, not even caring to hide his knowledge by lies and false masks. He was tired as well, and he had no desire to lie to Harry. Not any more.

"Oh?" Harry asked with a quirked eyebrow, and his crooked smile (he would never be able to look at James either) twisted with ironic tragedy. "I think everyone will be able to sleep a little easier once I'm done here."

"I was not talking about everyone, Harry," Albus said sadly, and he wondered if this brilliant child really thought nothing of himself. "I was talking about you."

"Don't bother yourself with ruminations, Albus," Harry chided gently, smiling as if they were old friends. "No man should spend his last moments on Earth regretting things long since unchangeable."

Albus chuckled, taking another sip of the poison Harry had slipped into his tea. "How wise sounding you are; how wise you might be."

"You think me foolish?" Harry asked inquisitively.

"I think nothing anymore," Albus replied truthfully. "I know nothing anymore. Everything I have ever done has fit into a copied pattern on the loom of history. A Light Lord rises to defeat a Dark Lord, only to be killed by the following one, which makes way for another. Never-ending, and yet -"

"I destroyed such a thing, Albus," Harry interrupted, and Albus quieted, eager to hear his student and successor. "I saved you from Tom; you have lived past your due date. You have served your purpose - your very existence goes against that fate you have known to always be attributed to you. I have saved you, merely to take you from this world myself - giveth and taketh away."

"Do you think you are God?" Albus asked, almost disappointed in Harry - so little ambition, if that was to be his goal. "Or are you merely railing against destiny? Petulant child."

"I am doing neither," Harry denied, holding out his hand. "The Elder Wand; it is mine."

"Shall be yours," Albus corrected gently, pulling the wand out of his robe pocket.

"Yes, yes, shall be," Harry griped, not even the slightest bit afraid of Albus pointing the most powerful wand in existence at him. Albus had enough pride to be slightly offended, but enough sense to realize that Harry need not fear him at all. He was too weak to ever attack his protégé. "Grammar was never my strong suit."

"A shame," Albus tutted, placing the wand on the desk between them. "I have always enjoyed grammar, ever since I was an English teacher."

"I did not know you once held such a profession," Harry confessed, his brow creasing.

"There are many things you don't know about me, my child," Albus smiled, reverting back to his fond title for Harry. Even now, Harry was still a boy with the entire future ahead of him. The future was not set in stone, not yet, and if anyone could defy fate it would be Harry.

"No matter how fascinating this conversation is," Harry said without a trace of sarcasm. Albus briefly wondered if he was being honest or if he had become that good of a liar. "We only have a few moments left together Albus. Do you have any last pearls of wisdom that you wish to impart upon me?"

"No, Harry," Albus chuckled, truly proud of all his student had done. "I have told you everything I know; you surpassed me long ago."

"You are still me professor though, Albus," Harry said fondly. "Surely there must be something left!"

Albus reached over the table, handing the wand that had brought countless wars to the world to the only man he had ever trusted. Trusted enough to leave him the world in his hands. "I have nothing that I have not given to you."

"Then this is good-bye?" Harry asked childishly, as if the consequences for his actions were only just dawning on him, clutching the wand to his chest.

"Yes, Harry," Albus smiled, kissing Harry lightly on the cheek. "But not for long. We will see you soon."

They waited in silence for the final moment, and as Albus left on his next journey with a wild look on his face, Harry allowed his fate to be sealed. There was no going back now; his path had been decided, and now it was up to him to walk it.

Harry sighed, watching as Fawkes transported Albus away to some unknown place for an unknown burial. Kingsley was expecting him.

There was only two days until the end.

Harry walked away, refusing to look back at the silently mourning portraits of Headmasters and mistresses long since past and yet unable to stop a single shudder race up his spine.

He stood before death.

* * *

Next chapter we return to the present; or better yet, the present that lay outside Harry's perception. We've seen the world as it is through Harry's fragmented thoughts. Now though, it is time for the other characters to shine, shine like dying stars: a single burst, and then a slow fade away.

The ending is only two chapters away. The present is two days away. Then it will all be over.

Ariaeris~


	4. The Fall

All those who were not divine have finally been given voices, but they are mere whispers in the wind. Reaching for the position of divinity, one man deprived them of their individual words; gazing down upon mortality, the other desired to open their eyes and instead shut them from the future that could have been theirs.

And in the end, nothing matters.

As God decrees it from his shaky throne, the future they had marched ever onward towards has finally been taken out of their grasp.

And as an era was set to begin, God takes up arms against those who seek beyond their measure of power.

Those who had wished to touch the heavens were struck down.

Blasphemers.

* * *

_**The Falcon Cannot Hear**_

_Chapter 4: The Fall_

_When dealing with people, let us remember we are not dealing with creatures of logic. We are dealing with creatures of emotion, creatures bustling with prejudices and motivated by pride and vanity. _

_- Dale Carnegie_

* * *

"And the future has become a brighter place thanks -"

He felt like he was back on the field, chasing after Death Eaters once more. His heart was pounding, his pulse racing, but his face betrayed none of his inner turmoil. His dark skin remained calm, like water before a great storm, open in a comforting way; he was determined not to look like the fat waste of a man that was his predecessor's predecessor, or like his former Auror chief that had died in the line of duty. He was going to be different; the world needed something different, and he and Harry were going to be that difference.

He had plans, multitudes of plans, plans that would make even the craftiest of Slytherins' minds spin. Things to change, things to alter, and laws upon laws that needed to be carefully revised and reconstructed. The Ministry was a wreck, everyone running around like chickens with their heads cut off (a funny saying - illogical, though most of his beloved world was anyway), but he needed to remain calm.

Harry was their savior, but he would be their God.

He needed to destroy this world in which wizarding kind 'lived;' there was nothing else that could be done. Carefully, he would tear apart their world by the seams and build a new world, a better world from its ashes.

Harry would help; Harry, whom above else, he loved. Kingsley knew well enough that one misstep would cast him into infamy. Harry though, Harry would be safe. He had countermeasures, protections, who knows how many plots circling inside his mind just waiting to burst from his finger tips and infect the world. Harry would help, of course he would, but Kingsley did not want him in the spot light.

It would do no good if Harry was the one blamed in case there were any mistakes. Therefore, the best course was to keep Harry out of the public eye, keep him at his side, only his side, and have him rule with him from behind the scenes.

No one would blame Harry then - all the blame would go to Kingsley.

Well, it would if he made a mistake.

And with Harry at his side, there could be no such thing.

* * *

Remus was standing with the Weasleys when Minister Shaklebolt began his induction speech, and the werewolf smiled ruefully as the comforting words washed over him. How much blood had been needed to write such a tale as the one Kingsley was spouting out?

Lofty words, promises, and who knows; maybe every single promise Kingsley was making he could fulfill. He had Harry on his side and, Remus thought bitterly, Harry was God in the eyes of the indebted public. He could do no wrong in their eyes - such a change from his childhood days where everything could be pinned on the young Potter without any regard for logic.

Just a year before Remus had sat here in Diagon Alley, silently grinding his teeth as a man cursed Harry for inflicting upon his son a minor illness.

He had wanted to kill him.

How scarred was this world, how scared? Was anything left sacred?

Harry was.

Bitterly, unwantedly, and disgustedly, Harry had taken upon himself the moniker of God.

Remus prayed that James and Lily would not hate him for what he had been unable to stop in Harry.

* * *

"...and unto which our great Savior has bestowed upon us..."

Draco could not help himself, and he snorted at the fool of a Minister's words. At his side, his mother shushed him while his father shot him a mildly annoyed glare, as if he was some minor insignificance in his view of the world.

The pale man's fist clenched; as always, his father was scheming, planning, plotting on how to get into this Minister's good graces. How to preserve the Malfoy name.

How to regain their former power.

It was all so meaningless. That man that had reared him was gunning for a position of superiority among the world, ever cherishing, ever lusting after power. His world, his reality, centered around that one thing, and he would cast asunder all forms of morality or reason in order to establish himself in a position of power.

Even peace, that man was willing to surrender.

Though he had no fondness for Minister Shaklebolt, Draco knew that the man had the fates on his side. Powerful, well-respected, he was in the prime position to bring the wizarding world back from the brink of destruction which the war with the Dark Lord had almost sent it careening into.

And he had Harry Potter.

It took only a few seconds for Draco to find his schoolyard rival, sitting primly and properly behind Shaklebolt, who was still incessantly weaving a fanciful yarn for the engaged public. It was sickening how intently the gathered public hung on his words.

Potter, the man who had conquered the Dark Lord, was silent as his alleged lover spoke half-crazed words to his gathering, and Draco almost shook his head in pity at the boy's fate. The prideful rival he had once known had been reduced to merely a doll, a figurehead being taken advantage of by the newest Minister of Magic.

Emerald eyes flared for the briefest of moments as the locked with his, and Draco could almost hear a wrenching scream course through his consciousness. He gasped, sinking to his knees; other than a curious glance from his mother, no one moved to help him.

Draco shook, overwhelmed with the future he had been shown in those eyes.

He briefly considered fleeing, but his heart whispered to him that everything was useless in the face of that will.

* * *

The Wealseys as a whole had always stood firmly for the Light, iconic figureheads of 'the purebloods who had chosen right.' For generations upon generations, they had supported each and every figurehead of Light that had risen against the never-ending tide of Dark Lords, boasting of the fact they had reared not a single dark wizard from their line.

They were the picture of perfection. A mother, a father, a bustling brood of ambitious (but not too much) and prideful (but always modest) children, all who would one day make their mark on the world (but never too great a mark).

And now they were witness to the next rise of the Light.

It had been touch and go for awhile; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had done more than any other Dark Lord in the past, gathered more followers and amassed more power than any of his predecessors, but in the end the Light had triumphed, as it should.

And it was all thank to one man, one they were honored to call one of their own.

Harry had done so much for them over the years, constantly standing against the Dark Lord as a valiant knight for justice. For all he had done, what better reward could be done than to officially invite him into their family? Ginny would be the perfect wife and, if the unsightly rumors were true and he was one of _them_, than there was still Charlie or one of the Twins for him to choose from. And if push came to shove, than Bill or Ron would still be available, though the latter would have to separate from Hermione (a pity, the children from her would have been great, but Harry was more important).

It would only be a matter of moments until Minister Shaklebolt finished his speech, and then they would present their offering to Harry.

And then everything would be right once more.

* * *

She stood off to the side of the amalgamation of hopes that had journeyed to witness their God speak.

Pale blue eyes watched the group linger on each and every one of the Prophet's empty words.

Her long, blonde hair shielded her smile from any who might have looked at her.

Good; they would have feared the crazed and tearful thing.

Death came on an absinthe throne made of plaster.

A giggle, and she broke down in sobs.

Such a creation they had made.

Luna watched in horror.

* * *

Here it was; the grand finale. Everything had lead up to this one moment. After this, the old regime will have ended and the dawn of a new age would begin.

The horizon he had so long sought after now surrounded him, painting the world in crimson shades.

The entire world had come to this event, dignitaries and embassies from nations all around the world to watch his ascension. All the figureheads of power, come to watch _him_.

Kingsley grinned; he couldn't help it. Everything had gone off without a hitch.

People applauded, as they were wont to in the name of politeness. He could see though, the gleam in their eyes, set there by the seed he had planted during his speech. He had awoken in them his vision for the future, a future in which they had once more risen to the glory that was once and shall forever be theirs.

So long had the magical world been oppressed with secrecy and lies, forced to hide in the shadows of their more populous tormentors.

No more! Together, the wizarding realms would shake off those chains they had willingly accepted in order to save their existences in order to live. Those muggles, the ones who had forced them to scurry around in shadows and dark alleyways in order to survive, would no longer hold onto a power that was not theirs.

The wizards would ascend to the throne that was once theirs, that was still rightfully theirs. They would overthrow those who had kept them in captivity, overturn the tides of power, and take their place as the rightful rulers of the world.

And he would be King, all with the help of his lover, his weapon, their God.

"And now I would like to introduce to you all, our Savior, Harry Potter!"

The deafening cheers that rose up, the outpouring of ecstatic glee filled him with a sense of purpose and pride. With Harry beside him, all his plans would come to fruition. There could be no way they would fail, not with divine will on their side.

There was only this last step, this final moment, and then the future he had so long sought after would finally become realized.

They stood on the precipice of a new age, and all that was left before the set sail was the words of their figurehead.

* * *

His name called, he rose from his throne with a defeated air. He had been right; his fate truly was as set as he believed.

His wand was in his hand, the Elder Wand, and a growing sense of dread crossed the eyes of those who knew what he held. An anticipatory breath was drawn, and all watched as their Creator and their Destroyer judged them and decided their fates.

Their fates were just as set as his was - there was no need to judge the already damned. He saw in their eyes the same thing that Kingsley had; that gleam, that vision that spoke of bountiful glory and heady days of dream-realized victories and experiences.

The image was tantalizing and he could understand why they had fallen under Kingsley's words; an upsurge of pride swept through him, and he gazed lovingly at his other half. What a world he had created with his words, with his dreams that floated mere inches from his hand!

It was not to be though; that same hand that had once touched him so lovingly closed around his future, and Harry drew back the possibility like a toy on a string, out of his reach.

Kingsley had tried to play God; tried to create his own ideal future, his own ideal world.

Kingsley had dared to create. Dared to touch heaven.

Harry smiled ruefully as he placed a kiss on the other's lips and the war-lusty wand against his throat.

Somewhere in between 'I love you' and 'Avada Kedarva,' a raven cried out.

* * *

All that is left is the end.

Ariaeris~


	5. Stillborn

Everything ends; a universal truth.

And just as true, everything begins anew.

Possibly.

* * *

**_The Falcon Cannot Hear_**

_Chapter 5: Stillborn_

_To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,  
To the last syllable of recorded time;  
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!  
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
And then is heard no more. It is a tale  
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury  
Signifying nothing._ _— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)_

- Shakespeare

* * *

Death.

He stood before, in, around; he was Death.

There was no blood, but he drowned in silence, his heartbeat rapping an asymmetric beat against his chest.

He had done it. He had destroyed them all.

Lazy green eyes watched as the sun began to set, the perfect blue sky for the once-perfect day slowly slipping into an amalgamation of reds and oranges and other burning, fiery colors. There was a hint of purple as well, and his gaze latched onto those flashes of color fervently, thankful for something that did not remind him of the blood he had not spilled.

He might as well have.

A bird of prey screeched, and Harry watched emotionlessly as it swooped down to land beside the body of the once Mrs. Hermione Weasley. His body jerked, an instinctive reaction to protect his once-friend rising to the surface, but he stifled it just as he had his common sense and his morality, and watched as it began picking at her flesh.

Were such predators supposed to appear so soon after death?

A painful lurch and his stomach berated him for ignoring it.

He must have been lost in thought for too long.

Would history ever forgive him for what had taken place here today, for what he had done? A foolish notion of course; although history was typically written by the victors (which was he undoubtedly, though there was no sense of triumph for his actions, though he did not expect any), there would soon be no one left to write an account of the day.

Though he was Death, he was a kind Death; a Death that accepted that without Life there could be no such thing as Death at all. Just meaningless erasure of a meaningless collection of experiences. With Death, with Life, things grew, and the untouchable became tangible and the horizon soon became lands long since traversed.

Kingsley had wanted that horizon, Harry thought with some mixture of pride and heartbreak and overwhelming apathy. He turned to face what was once the avatar of a great spirit, and he bent to drop a quick kiss on its cold lips.

The fool hadn't realized, even faced with death, that Harry had long since passed his horizon. He had not, could not, even comprehended that Harry would one day not need him (if he ever needed him at all - and it was an odd thought to realize that he did not know the answer to that) and Death wondered if that made him a bad person.

A light chuckle; he was questioning himself _now_?

The Elder Wand spun lightly in his fingers, as if by a will of its own, but he stilled it, staring at the innocuous piece of wood. He let the thought that he had been compelled by the war-lusty wand to create such beautiful carnage course through his mind before rejecting it completely; it would be an insult to him, an insult to all his victims, if he used such a pathetic excuse.

What he had done had needed to be done; the cynic in his mind whispered that it was all for the ever illusive greater good. The wizarding realm was cancerous to the world; for it, time had stopped while the rest of the world continued onward, and they had never been able to accept such a fact.

Rebellion. That was what lingered, had lingered, at the backs of their minds - even if they didn't realize it, they had longed to restore themselves to the superiority they thought they once held.

That they never held. All around the world, those with magic had always been in the startling minority. It was their swelled sense of pride and self-importance though that made the numerically weak wizards dangerous - with their potent magic and their subconscious hatred (justified or not) towards the eternally superior muggle race, they would have torn the world apart in their desperate struggle for total power.

It was a subconscious drive instilled in witches and wizards alike: we are better, we are stronger, we have the right to rule.

But rule they would no longer. Not here at least. The wizards of Britain had ravaged the land long enough; the struggle with Voldemort had reached the muggle world and had scarred it as equally as it had the wizarding one, and that was unacceptable. Too long had such an affront gone unpunished.

More birds were coming in, and Harry watched as they slowly began to devour the corpses Harry had created.

Created, destroyed…which had he done? Neither? Both?

He wasn't sure, and that was what separated him from the God everyone wanted him to be. They had placed him on a fragile pedestal, beseeching him for guidance and judgment, which he had given to them in the end.

Though there were no survivors to tell first-hand the massacre he had called upon them, Harry wondered if there would be anyone who would step up and say that this was not an act of God.

He could leave here, never be seen again, and live the rest of his life knowing that he had murdered most of the population of wizarding Britain because he thought it was his right. He could live in solitude, serenity, the life he had always wanted.

And that was the thing - he couldn't.

If he did, people would gasp and say his name with awe and fear, telling for generations of the God who had come and punished the wicked. The greedy, power-hungry people had fallen underneath his righteousness, and maybe a lesson would be learned, but then life would continue ever onwards as always, following the same path as it always had.

The same loom, the same pattern, just like Albus had said.

He had destroyed such a thing for the second time; a God could believably send down judgment from on high to the wicked, but what would the people's reaction be if an ordinary human had done the same? If a human being just like them had taken up the mantle of a false God and cast his own judgment, using the power he had been given. Had taken advantage of his natural superiority.

Harry smiled softly. Maybe then, those who remained would learn.

And from learning, the pattern would change, shift into something different and new and _beautiful_; something that would break the endless spiral of despair that the magical realm had locked the world in.

Feathers flew through the air as more predators soared down for their meal, and Harry laughed in relief; he felt redeemed.

There was a screech, and his smile slowly faded into a contemplative frown. There, on the horizon, a beautiful form flew through the sky, destroying the purple hues he had been watching so avidly.

Fawkes. The phoenix was soaring closer and closer, singing beatifically.

He wondered briefly whether it had come to praise or to attack him.

It didn't matter. Not now.

He had created something good; something good would come from the ashes of that which he destroyed. It had to; for he believed it would.

And yet still, he was no God; he could not be certain that he had rescued some far-flung horizon that was the duty of the next generation to reach and surpass. He was still a fallible human, a blind and senseless falcon soaring through sunsets bloodied by his actions, a demon birthed in Bethlehem.

Only that; nothing more.

Avada Kedarva, and he died with phoenix cries ringing in his ears.

**_So._**


End file.
